


in a sense

by juliabaccari



Category: Hadestown - Mitchell
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-10
Updated: 2017-11-10
Packaged: 2019-01-31 13:34:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12682932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/juliabaccari/pseuds/juliabaccari
Summary: The cycle of Hades and Persephone, as told through the five senses.





	in a sense

At the beginning of their relationship, they are ruled by their senses.

For Persephone, it is this:

The taste of mint leaf lingering on her tongue when she spots him at the edge of the garden. She does not know how long he has been standing there, watching her, but she does not feel alarmed at all.

The sound of a light rain starting to fall on the leaves and dirt; petrichor blooming under her nose.

The feeling of velvet-rose petal under her hands and the sticky pollen clinging to her fingertips as she squeezes too hard on a stem, anticipation coursing through her.

It’s the sight of fading sunlight, rain clouds on the horizon, a glow around his body. He looks like a messenger from above.

It’s ironic how wrong she is, in the end.

She drops the flowers she’s holding to the ground. They don’t seem to mean anything in light of this. Persephone has never felt anything like this, never seen anyone like him.

He steps forward, bends down onto one knee, picks up a flower as pink as sunset.

He reaches out and tucks it into her hair, just above her ear. 

He smiles, and it’s a nervous smile, sweet and dear.

 

For Hades, it is this:

The fading sunshine on her shoulders, bare in a summer dress, the way the light catches her eyes when she turns to look at him and her brown irises are suddenly a burnished gold.

The sound of his own heart pounding in his chest, rhythm rough and unsteady, louder than he thought possible.

The feeling of rough fabric as he holds his hat, cheap and worn, in hands that tremble at the sight of her.

The taste of rain in the air, the sense that something is coming, and nothing can be done to stop it now.

The smell of the flowers she’s holding, a bundle of roses in every color, strong enough that their scent washes over him standing several feet away.

She drops the flowers.

He steps forward.

Fate is stringing them along and it cannot be stopped, now.

\--

In the time after it’s begun, but before they’ve reached the middle of their story, they are happy. 

They lay tangled together in the garden under the stars and under the sun, birds singing sweetly above them, and she tells him she loves him. It seems like it will last forever.

But time is tricky - even when you’re a god among men.

\--

In the middle,

It is the taste of fear on his tongue, metallic like blood, as Persephone sickens and the herbs they need to cure her have been killed by winter frost.

It’s the feeling of bark scraping and tearing at brittle and calloused skin as he builds a fire for them, desperate to keep her warm another night, to keep her alive.

It’s the sound of her coughing, suppressed as though she is trying not to worry him, strangled yet soft. Weaker than he has ever known her to be.

It’s the sight of her skin - its warm pallor gone, the flush in her cheeks unnatural, the sallow and thin state of it. She looks as though she is wasting away. She smiles at him, attempting reassurance, but her lips are thin too. He is frightened.

And the scent - of nothing. Of cold. The absence of her favorite flowers, of anything but pine burning, until there is nothing more to burn.

Hades resolves to never let this happen again. They are better than this - she is better than this.

\--

In the end,

It is the sound of metal screeching that fills her ears, so much cacophony and discord, it drives her mad. She misses the music. She misses the birdsong. 

The sight of bright sparks flying as machinery grinds.

The smell of an unnatural fire, built from coal wrenched out of the unwilling earth, so wrong it’s a blasphemy of the open fields and bonfires Persephone knows from the spring.

Everything is too smooth to the touch, too perfect, metallic. Or it’s rough like the bricks of her husband’s wall, manmade, torturous under her fingertips. She misses the softness of flower petals and the softness of his hair under her hands.

And she misses the taste of her husband’s lips, once sweet with nectar, and sweet with promises - now grown unbearably bitter from the harsh words he speaks, and the tobacco he smokes, and the lies he tells her.

This factory isn’t for her.

It’s never been for her.

She never wanted this (she lies to herself, too, he taught her how).

She thinks it’s over.

And then, Eurydice and Orpheus enter their lives. 

It’s not quite the end.

And they start a new beginning.


End file.
